


Just Because I'm Losing, Doesn't Mean I'm Lost

by Swordy



Series: You've Done All the Things... [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Broken Bones, Broken Dean, Caring Sam, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Permanent Injury, Post-Purgatory, Post-Purgatory Dean Winchester, Psychological Trauma, Sick Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:44:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swordy/pseuds/Swordy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caring for Dean is taking its toll on Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Because I'm Losing, Doesn't Mean I'm Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Second sequel to ['You've Done All the Things That Could Kill You Somehow'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4622622/chapters/10537866). Follows on directly from [Stuck in Reverse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4625796). Thank you as always to thruterryseyes for the beta. EDIT: And now also for the gorgeous gorgeous art. Thank you so much, hon!

  


Several days had passed since they returned to London for Dean's appointments. Sam always figured this would be an important milestone for them - that if they made it there and back without incident, it would illustrate how much better Dean is.

Now, that concept seems laughable; wishful thinking borne of desperation. The stab wound in his abdomen has scabbed over. It's a mere scratch in the catalogue of injuries he's acquired as a hunter and not even the worst that Dean has given him, but it remains a glaring warning beacon, an ominous marker for this period of their lives; Dean is dangerous without even knowing it, yet to tell him might make things worse.

Instead, Sam carries on pretending everything's okay. Whether it's being discharged by his consultant or being told he doesn't require psychiatric care or even just making to London and back, Dean seems buoyed by recent events. Conversationally, he's a more active participant and he's even mentioned about going into the village next time Sam needs to go on a grocery run. For a brief moment Sam allows himself to be carried by this tide of optimism, until he imagines a scene of Dean freaking out and attacking some poor villager over some well-meaning attempt at conversation. 

Sam wants to be pleased, _he does_. He wants to tell himself that this is somehow indicative of progress, but he's an intelligent man and it's impossible to not see it for what it is. Dean is spinning out of control and a tiny, disloyal part of him says Dean _does_ need more help than he can give him.

"Sam?" He's pulled from his thoughts by the man himself, who's studying him curiously from behind his dark glasses. "You okay? It's not the first time you've zoned out on me today."

"Yeah," he replies hastily, stands up a little too quickly. For an instant he feels dizzy and he wonders if he's coming down with something. "Sorry, I was just... Yeah."

Dean frowns like he thinks Sam's losing the plot, which is pretty funny given the circumstances. Evidently he chooses not to pursue this line of questioning, instead holding up a jar of pickles. 

"You need to open these," Dean announces, turning his frown on the offending item. 

So far Dean's finding ways round some everyday activities that require two hands, but there's also plenty that still defeats him. At first Sam tried to anticipate what things might be difficult for Dean, but the occupational therapist his brother had briefly seen in hospital had said not to. Since Dean's refused any corrective surgery, it makes sense to let him problem solve and find out where his limitations truly lie, rather than just giving up after the first attempt. Jars are tricky though, so Sam takes charge and opens it.

Belatedly, he realises that Dean is making them lunch - another first since they've been here. He tries not to look shocked because Dean doesn’t respond well to such direct scrutiny. Instead he sits down at the kitchen table and surreptitiously watches his brother work.

“You’re looking a little pale, Sammy,” Dean says, glancing up from the sandwiches that he’s fashioning for them before his attention returns to his task. 

Unconsciously Sam straightens up a little because he definitely doesn’t want Dean worrying about him at the moment.

“Yeah... don’t think I slept all that great last night,” he answers vaguely, wiping a hand across his face. He tries to remember what day he last had a shave.

Dean pauses from where he’s buttering bread left-handed. He studies Sam, but reading his exact expression is difficult with his eyes masked by the dark glasses.

“I hope _I’m_ not the reason for your lack of sleep, because you really don’t need to worry. I’m good, Sammy, honestly.”

Sam feels obliged to respond so he gives his brother a tight nod, feeling an asshole for not being able to offer something more sincere. He _is_ tired so maybe he’s missing the signs of positivity that say maybe Dean _is_ finally getting better.

OoOoO

Or maybe he was right after all.

Twenty-four hours later and they’re experiencing one of those strange quirks of the British weather. The warm spell of the last few days has morphed into something more ominous – the sky is yellow-hued and everything feels heavy and oppressive. It’s not rained yet, but the threat is there. They don’t have plans and they’re both apparently content to stay indoors.

As the sky darkens Dean’s mood shifts with it. He grows increasingly restless, his expression a study in agitation. Sam watches the downward spiral, trying to work out at what point he should say something. Turns out, he needn’t have bothered since Dean is the one to open the lines of communication after they’ve eaten their evening meal – or rather _he’s_ eaten his meal whereas Dean’s pushed his around the plate like it may or may not contain poison.

“We’re not ready,” Dean growls suddenly after a long, tense period of silence. He’s not wearing his glasses, and his eyes are ceaselessly flicking round the room. “We’re not _ready_.”

Sam waits, because he’s learned that sometimes Dean is speaking to someone in his mind, but Dean suddenly looks straight at him.

“Dad will go fucking _crazy_ , Sam. Where’s the salt, huh? We’re just leaving ourselves wide open.” Dean shakes his head as he pushes back from the table and stalks out of the room. 

Sam takes his brother’s brief absence to decide how he’s going to handle this. If he’s honest, he’s amazed it’s taken Dean so long to question their apparently relaxed security arrangements given how they’ve lived for the best part of their lives. 

“Dean,” he says firmly when he hears returning footsteps. “It’s okay. We’re safe, I swear to you, man.”

Dean of old would demand answers, because how can Sam make these kinds of assurances? He’s prepared to explain how he can be so sure, even though he doesn’t really want to recall the deal he made with Crowley – _you keep away from me, and I’ll keep away from you, Moose_ – but Dean’s not interested. 

“You wanna explain to Dad, huh?” Dean snaps, glaring at Sam as if he’s crazy. “We’ve gotta get out of here, it just ain’t safe. We’ve got a car, right?”

Sam opens his mouth, but he’s perplexed as to what he can say in response. He knows one thing though – he needs to avoid inflaming the situation because Dean getting more agitated isn’t going to end well. 

“Okay,” he says eventually raising his hands in a gesture of placation. “Let’s think about this calmly, Dean.”

“ _Calmly?_ ” Dean replies, incredulous. “Calmly gets people killed, Sam. I’ll go grab my stuff, you call Dad, tell him we’re on our way.”

Evidently shocked by his brother’s lack of urgency, Dean mutters something Sam doesn’t quite catch and disappears out of the room; his booted feet can be heard on the stairs a moment later.

_Fuck_ , Sam thinks, because how the hell can he stop Dean going anywhere if he’s convinced himself that they need to leave? His worry surges as Dean moves around his bedroom, his heavy footsteps and the creaking floorboards betraying his location. God only knows what his brother’s doing up there, but he needs to act fast; Dean’s already demonstrated that he’s a danger, even to people like Sam whom he’s spent his whole life protecting, so a stranger... Sam leaves the thought there because frankly it doesn’t bear thinking about.

When he sprung Dean from the hospital after successfully arguing that his brother didn’t need mandatory psychiatric care, he’d convinced himself it was for the best, for Dean obviously since his brother has always been his primary concern. He’d flirted with the idea of Dean being a danger to others, but not _seriously_ , because that could have jeopardised Dean’s release if he’d not been one hundred percent behind the idea.

His first coherent thought is to lock all the doors. The front is locked anyway, so he goes into the kitchen to ensure that that one is bolted too. It won’t _stop_ Dean if he’s hell-bent on leaving, but it might at least slow him down. As he passes through the room, his eyes land on the work surfaces, past the detritus of their meal to the neat arrangement of prescription medications given to Dean when he left the hospital. 

The painkillers are about a third gone – Dean will take these for the headaches that natural daylight seem to give him – and the mild sedative combined with anti-anxiety meds have had one outing, when they had to return to London, but the strong sleeping pills remain untouched, due to Dean’s steadfast refusal to take them.

He’s horrified by how fast he decides what he’s going to do. Back when they’d first discussed the medication, he’d vowed to Dean that he wouldn’t make him take anything he wasn’t happy with. He’d meant every word... up until the point where Dean had stabbed him while he was sleeping and was now wanting to amass weapons and head off in the car after calling a man who’s been dead for _years_.

Before he can allow his reservations to register, he’s opening the vial and palming one of the pills. He drops it into the can of soda Dean had been drinking earlier, telling himself that if he can’t get his brother to drink it, then it’ll mean that it wasn’t the solution after all. He leaves it on the kitchen table.

He finds Dean upstairs trying to stuff clothes one-handed into a rucksack. Dean doesn’t look up when he enters.

“Hey,” he says after a moment’s observation confirms that his brother is not going to give up on this folly without his intervention. He decides then that his best chance is to at least play along. 

“ _Dean_. Just stop a minute, will you? Let’s at least plan _where_ we’re going to go.”

To his relief, Dean stops what he’s doing and looks at him expectantly.

“Come on, we can grab our stuff after we’ve got everything else figured out.”

He beckons for Dean to follow him and together they head back down to the kitchen. As he’s leading, it’s easy enough to choose where he sits at the table, leaving Dean to take the seat in front of his forgotten soda. Sam grabs himself a drink, knowing Dean might unconsciously mirror his action if he too sits at the table and drinks as they talk. Afterwards he can’t even recall the details of what was said. Dean was agitated and his rambling paranoia grew increasingly nonsensical as he drank the soda. Eventually Sam persuaded him to go back upstairs, on the pretence of finishing his packing, but sleep was inevitable since Dean had all but staggered up the stairs.

So now Dean’s sleeping soundly and Sam’s _so_ not fucking proud of himself.

_For the greater good_ , he tells himself repeatedly, when the guilt threatens to drown out the relief. While Dean sleeps, he unpacks his brother’s hastily grabbed belongings and hides the rucksack back in the closet. He plans to get some sleep, knowing Dean is drugged and he doesn’t have to worry about him taking off, but after two hours staring at his bedroom ceiling and listening to the rain hammer on the roof, he gets back up and pads downstairs to make himself a drink. 

He intends to have coffee or water, but the whiskey finds him first. One tumbler becomes two, but it doesn’t take him any closer to sleep. Eventually through sheer exhaustion he drifts off in the armchair, but the sky is already getting light and he wakes again barely an hour later with a stiff neck and a feeling of apprehension at the thought of another day of _this_.

His cell phone is on the coffee table and he touches the screen to find out what time it is. There’s a message from Jody on there – nothing urgent – she’s just asking for an update whenever it’s a good time. He realises that part of him wants, no, _needs_ to speak to her, to someone who will get it, but there’s another part of him that wants to shield her from it all. It’s the same part of him that wants to avoid saying it all out loud – like it will confirm his fears that this situation with Dean is bad or, even worse, untenable.

He realises he must be pretty out of it because it’s only just occurred to him to check on Dean. Dragging himself out of the chair, he ignores his bodily woes in favour of a hurried stride up the stairs. It’s okay – for once – as Dean is still fast asleep. He’s lying on his side facing the door, his right hand pulled into his body by his left. Even in sleep Dean looks tense.

Satisfied that his brother is going nowhere, Sam heads back downstairs. His limbs feel stiff and his muscles ache dully. It also hurts when he swallows, confirming that he’s definitely coming down with something. When he spies his phone, he makes a snap decision and decides to call Jody. The time difference means it should be around eleven pm back home, hopefully not too late to call. She answers on the third ring.

“Sam,” she says, sounding pleased and, fortunately, not like she’s just woken up. “Good to hear from you.”

“Yeah,” he replies, rubbing a hand across his face as he sits back down in the armchair. “Sorry I haven’t called sooner.”

“Hey, I don’t want you to think I was telling you off with that message. I know you’ll have a lot on your plate at the moment.” She obviously hears the small huffing noise he makes. “That bad, huh?”

He wants to say _no, I’m only kidding_ , but he’s in too weird a place at the moment for joking or pretending he’s joking or whatever it is he’d be doing.

“Dean... Dean’s not had a great day, if I’m honest.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

He sighs, wondering how to phrase what he will say next when ‘ _I think Dean’s crazy_ ’ would sum it up fairly well. “He’s pretty volatile at the moment.”

“That sounds a little more serious than mercurial.”

He smiles. Typical Jody to remember that.

“Uh, yeah.” He glances toward the door like Dean might walk in at any moment because the last thing he needs is for his brother to overhear him being talked about. “He keeps having periods where he’s really confused. Usually, he thinks he’s back in Purgatory, but last night he was talking about our dad like he was still alive. I definitely wasn’t ready for that.”

“So what did you do?”

He hesitates, then realises that he’s about to sneeze. Jody waits patiently while he gets through, concluding his fit with a noisy sniff.

“Not sounding too good there.”

“Sorry,” he replies, feeling like a kid as he wipes his nose with the back of his hand, but fuck it, there’s no one here to see him do it. “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

“Not good timing, huh? Are you sure you don’t want me to hop on a plane, Sam? I’ve got a little vacation time due and I make a wicked chicken soup.”

He smiles again, touched by her concern. “As awesome as that sounds, I don’t think Dean is ready for visitors yet.”

“Well, the moment that changes, consider me on my way.”

“Thanks, Jody. Seriously.”

“So you were saying, Dean thought your dad was still alive last night. How’s he doing now?”

Involuntarily he glances back toward the stairs. “He’s still sleeping. I’ll just have to wait and see.”

Jody doesn’t say anything for a moment, which clues him in to the fact that she’s about to say something he probably isn’t going to like.

“Sam, please don’t get mad but I’ve got to ask – do you still think Dean’s in the right place?”

“I don’t follow-”

“With you, in that house. I mean, you’re using words like ‘volatile’, you’re saying he’s confused. I know it’s still early days, but do you think he’s really starting to get better? Like I said, don’t hate me, but from an outsider’s perspective... it sounds like he’s getting _worse_.”

His reflex reaction is defensiveness, but he knows she’s just calling it like she sees it. That’s also _without_ knowing about Dean hiding food or attacking him. He sighs.

“I can’t just give up on him, Jody.”

“I know, and I’m not saying that for a _second_ , but you’re getting sick and it’s a large burden to carry on your own. There’s no shame in needing help.”

“But the kind of help they were suggesting at the hospital just wouldn’t be any good for him. Years ago, we worked a case inside a psychiatric institution. Honestly, Jody, we were both a _mess_. It almost got us killed in there. Dean like he is now... I can’t begin to imagine what would happen.” He hesitates, then reluctantly adds, “I couldn’t put other people at risk like that.”

“Has he been violent toward you, Sam?” Jody asks gently, but there’s a note in her voice that says she expects him to be honest.

“Just once.” He’s not about to include the rock throwing incident. “I’m okay though, seriously.”

At the other end of the phone, Jody sighs. “I’m worried about you, Sam,” she says sounding unhappy. “I’m worried about _both_ of you, but right now you’re my real concern because Dean’s got you looking out for him, but who’s looking out for you?”

“I get that,” he replies tiredly, closing his eyes and rubbing a hand across them. “And even though you’re not actually here, I really appreciate your support. I’ll talk to Dean about whether he’d be up for a visitor and when he’s okay with it, then you’ll be the first to know.”

“Okay. And I want you to call me, any time day or night, if you need to talk. You hear me?”

“I hear you, Mom.”

Jody laughs. “Hey, I’m not _that_ old.”

Sam laughs too before they end the call. He sits in the armchair watching the growing daylight and thinking of nothing until the sound of floorboards creaking overhead attracts his attention. After a few minutes the thump of footfalls indicates that Dean is coming downstairs. Sam watches as his brother passes the doorway, then doubles back when he realises that Sam’s in here.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Dean is dressed and, unusually, he’s wearing the foam sling to support his right arm. His gaze is assessing. “You up early or did you never go to bed?”

Sam scrubs his face one last time. “Couldn’t sleep.” It takes him a second to realise that they’re having an ordinary conversation and he wonders if he’s got his wish and the events of yesterday are forgotten. “You okay?” 

Dean nods. “Yeah. I feel like I got a good night’s sleep last night. You want some coffee?”

“Thanks.”

Dean’s almost disappeared when Sam makes a snap decision. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“You, um, you know what year this is?”

Dean frowns, his hand resting on the doorframe. “Dude, it’s 2012.”His eyes narrow suddenly. “Now you gotta tell me why you want to know.”

Honesty seems to be the best policy. “Last night... you were talking about dad like he was still alive.”

Dean appears to consider this for a moment before he shrugs. “Huh,” is all he says before he raps the doorframe with his knuckles and disappears to the kitchen.

Once his brother has gone, Sam closes his eyes. He’s starting to get whiplash from Dean’s rapidly shifting moods, not helped by the fact that he’s now not feeling one hundred percent either. He feels like an old man, and certainly not someone who’s supposed to be in the prime of his life. 

After a moment, he pushes up from the chair and heads into the kitchen. Dean’s moving around, making coffee like he does this everyday and for a few seconds, Sam allows himself to pretend that this is completely normal and their lives aren’t fucked up at all.

He pulls up a seat at the kitchen table and watches Dean work. His attention drifts out the window – the skies are still ominous-looking, promising more rain or a storm or both. There’s a small thermometer propped up on the window sill and even from here, he can see that the mercury is climbing, as it has been steadily for the past few days. 

“Hey,” Dean says without turning round. “You wanna go out somewhere today, get some fresh air?”

Sam’s glad Dean isn’t looking as it gives him a moment to school the surprise from his expression. When they first arrived at the farmhouse, Dean had steadfastly refused to spend any time outside. Not wanting Dean to add vitamin D deficiency to his list of physical ailments, Sam had started to insist that he sit outside, just for twenty minutes. Admittedly, he’d been surprised when Dean had actually agreed to it, until his brother had duly presented him with the alarm clock – a gesture of defiance that said he wasn’t going to stay out a minute longer than he had agreed to. 

He suddenly realises he hasn’t replied. “Uh, sure. D’you wanna go anywhere in particular?”

Dean shrugs, then turns and hands Sam his coffee. “Dunno. A walk, maybe?”

Dean’s looking at him now, waiting for his response. He manages a nonchalant shrug, even though he’s no idea how he does it.

“Uh, yeah, we can do that.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m just thinking about the weather. I think there’s a storm coming.”

Dean glances out of the window, seemingly contemplating this. In the silence that follows, Sam realises that he’s going to lose his brother if he doesn’t support this apparent bid for normality, so he relents.

“You’re right; let’s get out for a while.” He smiles, even though what he really wants is to go back to bed and lie shivering under the covers. “I’m guessing it’s easier on your eyes, when it’s dull like this?”

“Yeah.”

Sam drinks his coffee, then lets the cup rest against his lip. It’s impossible to gauge if Dean remembers anything about what happened last night, and he can’t work out if that’s a good thing or not when his brother’s confidence in his own recovery hangs in the balance. And now Dean wants to go out. Whatever his brother’s motives for this sudden need to see more of his surroundings, he’s got to go along with it because there’s always a chance it could kickstart a new phase of Dean’s recovery. 

He realises that he’s drifted, so when Dean looks at him, he nods decisively. He drains the last of his coffee and stands up. “Okay then. I’ll just get cleaned up and we’ll go.”

OoOoO

Sam follows his brother’s lead and leaves his jacket behind. The grey skies are deceiving as it’s much warmer than it looks and after about five minutes, he’s already contemplating losing his overshirt too. Dean is giving no indication that he’s warm, but he doubts his brother would shed any of his layers even if he was. 

They’re taking the track that leads from the back of the house. It’s not like they’ve had an actual conversation about _where_ they’re going, but he figures Dean will want to stay away from anywhere where they may come across other people, so heading toward the road is out.

Dean is still wearing the foam sling, which he’s now teamed with his dark glasses. He’s barely said anything since they left the house, but he seems content enough to walk while Sam fills the silence by explaining what he knows about the area. The ground is muddy after the overnight rain so they stick to the paths that run along the perimeter of the fields behind the house.

The whole time they’ve been out, they haven’t seen a soul. In between their mainly one-sided conversations, Sam realises that there’s no traffic noise either. Incrementally, he can feel himself relaxing because they’re _out_ and there’s no reason for this to go badly. If Dean sees that, then he’s got more ammunition when he needs to convince Dean that he’s no longer in danger.

“You see that house?” Sam says, pointing across the rolling fields to the farm in the distance. “That’s where Chris our landlord lives with his family. He’s a good guy.”

He assumes Dean is looking even though the dark glasses make it impossible to tell. Dean nods then turns to the direction they’ve just come from – a clear indication that he’s had enough for the day. 

They’re re-tracing their steps when Dean says, “Have people asked?”

“Asked what?”

“What we’re doing here.”

There’s no reason to lie, but Sam still takes a moment to consider how best to phrase his answer. “It’s a small village, so I had to come up with a cover story to stop people being too curious about us. As far as anyone’s concerned you’re ex-military, recovering from an accident. I figured that explanation would stop people feeling like they could ask for more information about us.”

“Makes sense,” is all Dean says, and mentally Sam breathes a sigh of relief that he seems to have dodged another bullet.

They walk in silence for a couple of minutes. While they’ve been out, the sky has darkened and Sam’s sure he can feel the first few spots of rain. He’s about to say something to that effect when the heavens open, and they’re suddenly caught in the middle of a deluge. There’s a small copse on the opposite side of the field – the only shelter in their current location – and suddenly they’re both off and running toward it.

Under the trees they stop and catch their breath. Sam studies his brother, dark glasses still in place, as he watches the downpour.

“You okay?” he says after a few moments have passed. It might be his imagination, but the rain seems to be easing.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, although he doesn’t turn to look at Sam as he says it. His voice has a slightly dreamy, un-Dean-like quality to it. “It never rained in Purgatory.”

Cold slithers down Sam’s spine. Aside from when Dean’s in the grip of a flashback, he’s never so much as _mentioned_ any details of his prolonged absence. Obviously, Sam’s curious – who _wouldn’t_ be? – but he’s always conscious that Dean should only talk about Purgatory on his own terms, and only when he’s ready. Even though that seems to be the case now, he’s still not sure this is a door his brother is really ready to open.

He draws breath to say something, even though he hasn’t got anything planned, when Dean says, “We should make a move; looks like it’s eased a bit.” – and Sam can only nod in dumb agreement.

They reach the house and go to change out of their wet clothes. Getting caught in the rain has done nothing for the chill in his bones; he’s feeling increasingly lousy and the urge to crawl back into his bed and go to sleep is stronger than ever, but how can he leave Dean unattended? He’s sitting in a t-shirt and boxers, trying to muster up the energy to get dressed and go back downstairs when the bedroom door opens and Dean enters, a glass of water in his good hand and a packet of cold and flu meds pressed to his body with the other.

“You need to get in bed,” Dean instructs before Sam can say anything. “You should have said if you were getting sick.”

His denial is lost in a succession of sneezes. Dean nods at this confirmation of his suspicions.

“Bed. _Now_.”

Whether it’s getting sick, or just hearing Dean unexpectedly sounding like his strong, determined big brother, but Sam does as Dean says. Once he’s under the covers, Dean hands him the glass of water and the meds and stands, stony-faced, until Sam has swallowed the pills.

“Great, now you’re gonna get some rest—”

“Dean-”

“ _Sam_. No arguments, okay?” Dean’s eyes narrow. “You don’t have to _babysit_ me.”

He practically spits the word out. Sam wants to make a counter argument, he _does_ , but his body disobeys him and once he’s lying down, sleep is inevitable. He drifts off, despite his anxiety about the sudden role reversal.

Several hours later, he’s woken by Dean shaking his shoulder. It takes a significant amount of effort for him to come to full wakefulness, but when he does, he realises Dean has brought soup and a sandwich.

“Not hungry...” he starts to say through a throat that feels raw with disuse.

“Tough,” comes the firm response. “You’re sick so you’re having something to eat and some more meds and you’re staying right here.”

He manages some soup and one of the sandwiches, but is glad to climb back under the blankets since his whole body feels like it’s been encased in ice. He’s asleep again within minutes.

OoOoO

This time he wakes to find his bedroom in darkness. He’s in no rush to get up, so he takes a moment to listen to try and work out where Dean is. There’s no noise from downstairs though, no muted sounds of the television or footfalls on the stairs because Dean is coming back to check on him now that he’s woken up. Outside the rain is still falling.

“Dean?” The word comes out in a thin rasp. With a wince, he swallows and tries again. No answer. Despite the chill, he eases back the covers and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Dean?” Padding down the stairs, he grips the handrail because he’s definitely feeling a bit wobbly. The lights are on in the kitchen and the living room, but he finds Dean in neither. He moves from room to room, calling his brother’s name at a volume barely more than a whisper. He exits the living room heading for the dining room next, but his brain belatedly flags something up to him before he can get there. He stands in the hallway trying to interpret what’s eating at him all of a sudden when he realises what it is.

Dean’s boots, that he’d taken off when they’d come back from their walk and left next to the front door, have gone.

Dean’s gone out.

Despite his body screaming at him to go back to bed, adrenaline fuels his steps and he’s back upstairs and throwing on clothes as quickly as he can. Rushing makes him feel even more light-headed and he almost falls on the stairs on his way back down. He shouts Dean again, pushing his voice out through strained vocal chords.

“Fuck,” he growls to himself when there’s still no answer. Outside is next, so he goes into the kitchen and digs out the flashlight from one of the drawers. On a whim, he checks the kitchen door and finds it still locked; it’s no comfort though, because even if Dean hasn’t gone out this way, it’s clear that he’s no longer in the house.

His own boots are still in the hallway, and he drags them on and heads out the front door. He twists the handle to find it’s unlocked. There’s a chance Dean could be out here, like the time he found him working on the car in the early hours, but he’s pretty sure that even Dean would draw the line at carrying out non-essential work in the dark _and_ rain.

Sure enough, he finds the car unattended. His flashlight sweeps the area before he heads around the back of the house to the collection of outbuildings. He searches them one by one, calling his brother’s name as loudly as he can manage. It feels like he’s swallowing broken glass every time he does it.

When he’s certain that Dean’s not here, the panic that suddenly explodes in his chest almost floors him. He grips the doorframe for a moment, head bowed as he wills the dizziness to pass. He’s trying to work out what his next steps should be, but his thoughts scramble at the hopelessness of the situation – Dean’s actions are rarely logical anymore, so it’s impossible to try and think of a reason why he’s gone, which would possible help divine _where_ he’s gone. They don’t know anyone here, so there’s no one he can ask to help look for his brother.

The police are the logical ones to call, but he knows the drill – they’ll just tell him that Dean is a grown man and will have to be missing for twenty-four hours before they’ll entertain his concerns. The only way to circumvent this time restriction is to tell them that Dean is mentally unstable and may be a danger to himself and others, but the can of worms _that_ could potentially open doesn’t really bear thinking about, especially when they’ve only just escaped the scrutiny of those agencies in London.

He realises that his car keys are in his jeans’ pocket, and he takes them out, the metal warm in his hand. He makes a decision and decides that he’ll go and look for Dean on the road. If he can’t see him there, he’ll head over to their landlord’s house, since he’s the only person around here who’s vaguely aware of their situation and may be able to help in some capacity. Sweat is beading on his brow and upper lip and he swipes it away clumsily.

It takes a herculean amount of effort to get to the car and climb behind the wheel, especially as he goes to the wrong side of the vehicle, forgetting it’s right-hand drive. He starts the engine and curses as he crunches the gears, wishing he had the Impala or, hell, _any_ automatic car right about now so that he’d have one less thing to think about. The wheels spin slightly in the mud as he guides the car down the lane. He’s rushing too much to avoid the potholes and he grits his teeth as the car bounces, the jarring movement rattling his brain in his skull. There’s a scary moment when he’s certain he’s about to pass out, but he grips the steering wheel tighter and forces himself to concentrate.

The road is unlit and the driving rain makes it difficult to see beyond the beam of the car’s headlights. Unless Dean’s walking down the middle of the road, it’ll be virtually impossible to find him like this, so he makes the decision to get to their landlord’s house as quickly as possible. Nudging the accelerator, he takes the next bend – too late realising that he’s driving on the wrong side of the road as another set of headlights come rushing up to meet him.

He realises his error at the last moment and hits the brakes. The car spins and he braces for impact, but fortunately the vehicle comes to an abrupt halt half on the road, half up the grass verge. He lets out a slow, shaky breath before he remembers that there was another car involved and he needs to find out if the occupants are hurt. He thinks he might throw up, but before he can get out of the car, the door is thrown open.

“Sam!” a male voice says in surprise, “Are you okay?”

Through the haze of nausea, he realises that the very man he was coming to visit is staring down at him, his face a mask of worry. Chris Barker, the owner of their rental property, is giving him a visual once-over while he waits for an answer.

“I’m sorry,” Sam rasps, aware he almost caused a serious accident. “Shit, I dunno where my head’s at.” Then he remembers exactly where it is. “ _Dean_. Dean’s gone and I need to find him-”

All at once, he’s trying to stand up, but Chris’s hands are upon him, pushing him down. “Sam, _Sam_ , it’s okay, mate. Dean’s at my house.”

Sam frowns because he’s certain he can’t be hearing Chris right. Dean’s missing, but why would his brother have gone to a stranger’s house? He realises Chris is still speaking because his expression is probably conveying his utter confusion.

“Sarah called me before, said Dean had come to the house because you were sick and he needed to get a doctor to you. He was worried you might wake up and find him gone so I said I’d call while I was on my way home. No offense, Sam, but you shouldn’t be out...”

“I thought...” the statement trails off as he lets his head fall back against the seat and closes his eyes. “I thought Dean might be in trouble.”

“Look, mate, you need to get back home--”

“I _need_ to see my brother.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so aggressive, but he's suddenly hit by the realisation that Chris's family could be in danger.

He hears Chris sigh, presumably exasperated by this recalcitrant patient. “Okay, I’ll take you to my house first.” The other man disappears back to his own car for a moment, before returning hurriedly. “Shove over,” he instructs. “I’ll drive.”

The journey only takes a few minutes, but he can feel himself drifting again. He wakes as the car jerks to a stop. On shaky legs, Sam forces himself to climb out of the car and head toward the house, where he can see lights on in the kitchen. He follows Chris inside, desperate to see Dean with his own eyes. There are voices coming from his right – the first is female, followed closely by his brother’s. From upstairs he hears the sounds of children playing.

He rounds the corner and sees Dean sitting at the Barker’s kitchen table, a mug of coffee in front of him. A towel is draped over one of the empty chairs and Dean’s hair is spiked where he’s obviously dried himself off using it. Dean’s not wearing his dark glasses and his expression is solemn, his posture tense. It’s clearly taking all his reserves to be around other people. His eyes widen slightly as Sam enters the room.

“Sammy? What the hell are you doing here?”

Sam can’t help the laugh that escapes his lips, even though he’s not remotely at the point where he can find anything about this funny. He shakes his head, his hair falling in his face.

“Jesus, Dean. I thought I’d lost you.” Just as quickly as the laughter came, he finds himself on the verge of breaking down. The emotion completely takes him by surprise, even though it probably shouldn’t, given how long he’s been teetering on the knife edge.

Fortunately Dean seems to realise that he’s about to lose it and stands quickly. “We need to get you home and back into bed.” Dean glances at Sarah suddenly. “The doctor’ll come, won’t he?”

“Yes, once he’s finished evening surgery Dr. Phillips said he’ll call at your house to see Sam.”

Dean nods, his expression unwavering. “Thank you. I appreciate you doing that for us.”

“You’re welcome.” Sarah’s answering smile is warm, so however Dean has conducted himself in the time he’s been here, it’s evidently not made her feel uncomfortable or anxious. “And remember, if you need _anything_ , you just give us a call, okay?”

Dean nods again, but his eyes are already on Sam and the door.

“Come on,” Chris says, “I’ll run you back.”

The short car journey back to their house is conducted in silence, save the rhythmic squeak of the wipers. Chris waves off their concerns once they get home – his own vehicle that he left on the side of the road isn’t far so he’s happy to walk back for it. He reiterates his wife’s offer of assistance, then leaves them to get back home to his family.

Once in the house, they troop upstairs together to change out of wet clothes for the second time that day. Dean hovers in his room, presumably in case Sam’s about to come over all defiant and refuse to get back into bed, but in truth, he’s more than happy to climb back under the covers.

Satisfied that Sam’s not about to go anywhere, Dean disappears into his own room, returning several minutes later in a t-shirt and sweat pants. He’s about to say something, when there’s a knock at the door. Since they’ve been living in Surrey, Dean has never gone to greet visitors - not that they’ve had many of them. Sam goes to get up, but Dean gestures for him to stay put.

He listens to Dean’s footsteps on the stairs, followed by the front door being opened. A brief conversation takes place that’s too quiet for him to track and then the footsteps return, two sets this time. When the bedroom door opens again, Dean enters with the doctor. 

Dr. Phillips is younger than Sam expected, maybe only a few years older than Dean himself. He offers Sam a warm smile and doesn’t seem the least bit fazed by Dean’s lingering presence as he begins the consultation.

“So, Sam,” he says, “Your brother tells me you’re a bit under the weather. When did you start to feel ill?”

He thinks, wonders if the answer he’ll give will be remotely accurate since he’s never sure where one day ends and another begins anymore. When he goes to respond, the shards of broken glass in his throat make their presence known and he winces.

“This... this morning, I think. Headache, sore throat, nothing serious.”

The doctor nods. “Your brother says he’s been unable to get your temperature down for the last few hours.”

Sam glances at his brother’s solemn expression and feels bad that he’s causing Dean to worry with everything else that’s going on. His attention is drawn back to the doctor as the examination begins. It’s routine stuff – ears, throat, temperature, listening to Sam’s chest as he shivers from the cool metal of the stethoscope.

“Well, Sam, it appears you’ve got a pretty nasty bout of pharyngitis going on.”

“Strep throat?” Sam croaks, mortified at the thought of being floored by something so ordinary. 

“Given the severity of your symptoms and the speed of onset, yes. Before today, have you been ill recently?”

“No, why?”

“Well, the bacteria responsible can lie dormant in the human body, but if your immune system is already fighting off a virus, then it can start to cause problems.” Dr. Phillips studies him for a moment, and Sam knows the other man’s taken stock of his haggard appearance when he says, “Stress can also be a factor in why the bacteria have suddenly taken hold.”

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but Dean cuts in first. “Sam’s been under a lot of pressure recently,” he says, holding his brother’s gaze, both his expression and tone of voice indicating that Sam should not argue otherwise. He holds up his damaged hand. “I had a serious accident a while back, so Sam’s been taking care of me.” Dean forces a smile, but it’s completely humourless. “It’s not been easy.”

Dr. Phillips nods. “Well, Sam, you need to keep taking paracetamol and ibuprofen for your fever and I’ll write you a prescription for some antibiotics. Make sure you complete the course, even if you start to feel better.”

“He’ll take them,” Dean says firmly, holding his hand out for the piece of paper.

The doctor leaves shortly afterwards. Sam listens to the muted conversation taking place downstairs as Dean shows him out. He’s expecting Dean to come back upstairs immediately, but he doesn’t. He’d swear that Dean is talking to someone, but he can’t imagine who that would be, so he stops trying to follow the sounds from downstairs. After a few more minutes he starts to grow uneasy, but just as he’s contemplating dragging himself out of bed to go see what Dean is doing, he hears the soft footfalls on the stairs once more.

“Hey,” Dean says as he enters the room. 

“Hey. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, as he clears clothes off the chair in the corner and drags it over. “I, uh, I called Chris Barker. He’s gonna pick up your meds for you so you can get started on them tonight.”

Sam knows he’s looking at his brother like he’s suddenly got two heads, and he’s expecting Dean to chew him out, but instead his brother just sighs as he sinks into the chair beside the bed.

“I can use a _phone_ , Sam.”

He knows he should answer that – should tell Dean that he _knows_ his big brother is more than capable of _anything_ if he puts his mind to it, but the last few months have taken their toll. Evidently it shows on his face because Dean sighs again and shakes his head sadly.

“I know, you’ve no reason to have any faith in me at the moment, Sammy. I’m a mess, I can see that, but you’ve gotta let me take care of you, okay? _Please_ , just let me do this.”

He nods and the desperation in Dean’s eyes fades to something closer to relief. He doesn’t know what it says about Dean’s psyche that no matter how broken his brother is, he can still pull it together enough when Sam’s the one in trouble. Similarly, he doesn’t know what it says about _his_ psyche - that he’ll take any illness or injury _gladly_ if it means getting his beloved big brother back, even if it’s just for a little while.

**End**


End file.
